


Partners in Crime

by halyo



Series: A Town Called San Adrestia [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 19th Century, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Western, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gang Violence, Gen, Heist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halyo/pseuds/halyo
Summary: Faerghus County, New Mexico1876When Caspar confronts a thief in the Blue Lion Saloon, he thinks it's an open-and-shut case for the sheriff. But Ashe has an agenda of his own and an injustice in his past that Caspar feels duty-bound to right. Armed with a shotgun, a lockpick and a score to settle, the two set out to take the law into their own hands.Or: An Old West AU featuring a feral sheriff, a gang tattoo in the shape of a scorpion, and a vault full of stolen gold.Can be read as 'no homo' or 'yes homo', depending on your preference.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez & Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert
Series: A Town Called San Adrestia [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712188
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vehicroids](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehicroids/gifts).



Faerghus County, New Mexico

May 1876

A lone horse and rider begin the long trek into town. 

The sand is rough against Caspar’s skin, whipped up by the winds. Despite the bandana pulled up to cover his mouth, the hot, arid air scotches at his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. Vultures float effortlessly in the sky, watching him from above.

Caspar’s back aches from hours in the saddle. He’d struck out on his own after the events of the last few months, setting off as soon as Linhardt had given his wounds the all-clear. He needed to travel, he’d claimed, needed some time alone to get out of the small town of San Adrestia and clear his head. Not that his father had cared much for his excuses; Caspar had been ushered out the door with a pocketful of dollars and the second-best horse in the stable without so much as a goodbye.

That suited him just fine.

Two ranchers send him dirty looks as he approaches the edge of town. They’ve been watching him for miles, and the details slowly reveal themselves as he gets close. A man and a woman, both wearing an expression somewhere between suspicion and contempt. Behind them is a pen full of wild horses ready for breaking in, the town sprawling out beyond that.

“You ain’t from ‘round these parts, are you?” the woman asks in greeting, squinting up at Caspar from underneath the brim of her hat. She’s pretty enough -- no older than twenty years old, blonde hair cut boyishly short, and with a body to die for. Everything a man would usually look for in a woman, bar the scowl on her face. Her clothes are worn from hard riding, hat faded in the sun, a rifle slung across her back. Despite her youth, she looks like she knows how to use it.

The man at her side is a little older, sporting a shirt hanging open to his navel and a shock of hair so red it’s almost unnatural. Nonchalant, he leans back against the fence, elbows balanced precariously against the wood. He chews lazily at the toothpick balanced between his teeth.

Caspar draws his horse to a halt, then tips his hat in reply. “From San Adrestia born and raised, but I’m just a-passing through. I don’t mean ya no trouble, miss.”

The woman scowls. “I ain’t no ‘miss’. And you’d best watch your back, kid. We don’t take too kindly to foreigners here.”

“Now don’t you mind Ingrid,” the man interrupts, sending Caspar a wink and a brilliant smile. “She gets cranky. ‘Specially when there’s a full moon out, if you get my drift.”

That earns him a sharp elbow to the ribs. It takes Caspar a second or two to get what he means, and he can’t help but smile at the joke. He tosses a coin to the man stood by the side of the road, who snatches the quarter from the air. 

“You got a place for the horse, sir?”

A winning smile. “Sure do.”

Caspar dismounts his horse, grabbing the reins and passing them over. He offers his other hand in greeting. “Caspar Bergliez. Good to meet ya.”

“Sylvain Jose Gautier. The pleasure’s all mine, kid.” The handshake only lasts a moment or two before Sylvain drops his hand, and Caspar follows a second later. “Say, I’ll bet you’ve had a long journey. All that riding’s thirsty work. End of the road, turn left, then first on the right. Blue Lion Saloon, ain’t no finer establishment in the west.”

Caspar tips his hat. “Thank you kindly, sir.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Caspar wanders through town for a while, just getting to know the place. It doesn’t seem to be that much bigger than his hometown to the south, but the similarities end there. It seems colder somehow, despite the ninety-degree heat, every stare directed his way icy and malicious. The only smile he gets is from a tiny redheaded woman in the marketplace, singing to herself as she works. She points him in the direction of a guest house, sending him on his way with the promise she’d cook for him should he need a meal for the night.

By the time Caspar is done, the mid-afternoon sun has risen high above the town, and every breath is stifling. He pulls his hat down and scurries back to the saloon.

A man greets him outside the bar with a scowl and a snarl. Caspar tries to introduce himself, but his handshake is snubbed. All he gets is a reluctant “Fraldarius,” in reply, then: “Leave your weapons at the door, stranger. This ain’t no place for fighting.”

Ignoring the jab, Caspar pulls a case of cigarettes from his pocket, then offers one to the man. “You want a smoke?”

“No,” comes the reply, coarse and blunt.

Caspar shrugs. “Suit yourself, mister.”

He leaves his shotgun by the door, then enters the Blue Lion Saloon, shutter-doors swinging behind him. A flick of his wrist, a dollar exchanges hands, and the bartender slides him a double measure that’s stingy even by saloon standards. Caspar turns to the floor, finding every stare in the place directed his way. They’re the kind of looks that make his free hand ball into a fist, that makes anger rise inside him and stokes his inbuilt urge to fight. Any chatter has long since died down. Caspar can feel the tension in the air. His fist bounces at his side. But takes his glass and picks his way between the tables, searching for a seat among the hostile crowd. He talks loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Y’all best count yourselves lucky,” he says. “I’m on my best behaviour.”

There’s a man sat at a table towards the back, all on his own. Unlike the others, he’s got his head down, as if he’s trying not to attract any attention. 

“This seat taken?” Caspar asks, and the man looks up. No, not a man, not yet; despite his head of slicked-back grey hair, he’s no older than Caspar, wide-eyed and clean-shaven and with all the innocence of youth. 

The kid smiles, gesturing with his elbow. “All yours.” 

“Thanks, man. Thought I’d have to fight for a seat in this place. Not like that’d be a problem, mind.”

“You ain’t a local, are you?” he asks, and Caspar shakes his head. “How’s Faerghus treating you?”

“Had a bit of a frosty reception. I take it y’all don’t like outsiders very much.”

The kid grins again, then produces a pack of cards and starts to shuffle them. “Yeah, you’ll get that ‘round here. It sure ain't the friendliest place around.” He fans the cards in his hand, cutting the deck. “Fancy a game?”

Caspar pulls out a chair, places his glass down, and swings his feet up onto the table. “Sure. Your deal.”

The two of them make small talk as they play. The man’s name is Ashe, he’s a couple of months younger than Caspar, and he’s _really_ good at playing cards. He’s well-dressed, but the expensive clothes are visibly distressed, torn and repaired a hundred times over. His hands move almost too fast to count as he cuts the deck, shuffles, deals, cuts, shuffles again. Just looking at it makes Caspar dizzy.

They play a few rounds of cards. Ashe offers a dollar as the first stake, and Caspar rises to the challenge. But after another couple of games, Caspar losing every single one, his suspicions start to get the better of him. As he watches yet another dollar be taken from him, Caspar leaps to his feet, grabbing Ashe by the hand and nearly wrenching his arm out of its socket. He yanks the sleeve of Ashe’s shirt down to the elbow. Sure enough, two aces and a king flutter to the floor, an admission of guilt. 

Disgusted, Caspar stares at the cards. His top lip twitches, his free hand once again tightening into a fist. Red-hot anger starts to rise inside him.

“Alright,” Ashe says, lifting his hands. “You caught me. I don’t wanna fight, I swear. You can keep the cash. All of it.” He slides all of his winnings back over to Caspar, a tidy profit of a few dollars. “I’m gonna run, now--”

And run he does, bolting like a frightened deer and scampering between the tables. Ashe disappears out the saloon doors, leaving only a couple of coins and a box of matches behind. It’s all very sudden, and Caspar can’t help but feel suspicious. 

He goes for a cigarette, but something feels wrong. His belt is dangerously light.

Caspar’s hands go straight to where his wallet used to be, then to the pocket of his waistcoat where his watch once sat. He finds only empty space. He’d been so focussed on the cards in Ashe’s left hand that he hadn’t noticed the right hand lifting his wallet and watch. 

Ashe had distracted him with a couple of dollars and ran off with twenty times that.

_Shit._

“Motherfucker,” Caspar swears, then tears after Ashe. He doesn’t notice the laughs from the patrons around him. He charges out the door, stopping only to grab his gun from where he’d left it at the entrance to the saloon. A glance to one side: there, at the end of the road, a kid with pewter-grey hair and a wallet in his hand.

Caspar catches Ashe at the end of the road, leaping in to tackle him to the ground. The world blurs as they tumble together. He smacks Ashe around the face, then again in the chest, winding him. Ashe lashes out, counting with a kick to Caspar’s knee. A sharp pain runs up Caspar’s leg, but he hardly notices. He hits Ashe again, gritting his teeth and yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Stay down!” he shouts, but Ashe grabs him by the shirt and drags him back to the floor again. Ashe is fast. Caspar is strong. The scuffle is brief and bloody, neither of them coming out unscathed. But eventually Caspar gets a good hand to the shotgun at his back, drawing it with a flourish. Ashe’s head lolls back against the ground, disoriented. 

“Stop,” he whispers. “Please. I’ll give it all back, I swear.”

Caspar staggers back to his feet. He cocks his weapon, pointing the barrel down at Ashe’s chest. The thief is sprawled on the ground, dust smeared in his clothes and hair, the air forced from his lungs. With a flick of his wrist, Caspar lifts the gun until the barrel is just beneath Ashe’s chin.

He’s only been in Faerghus county an hour, and already he’s dishing out justice. It seems he’s still on duty even now. And to think he’d gone travelling to get _away_ from the baggage of his job as lawman in San Adrestia.

Caspar quickly retrieves his wallet and watch, and he’s none too gentle about it.

“You got a marshal in this town?” he asks, and Ashe can only nod in reply.

“Sheriff Dimitri Blaiddyd,” he whispers. “But you don’t want to get on his bad side--”

“I’ll take you to him, so you can face justice.” Caspar looks up and down the street, trying to find the lawman’s office to no avail. “Right,” he says, somewhat lamely. “Where is it?”

Still dazed, Ashe just shakes his head in resignation. “I’ll show you,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Good,” Caspar snarls. “Now get up. I got no sympathy for criminal scum like you.”

Ashe complies without saying a word.

It’s only a short walk through town to the sheriff’s office. Twice Ashe tries to bolt. Twice Caspar stops him. They keep walking.

Caspar all but barges down the door, steering his prisoner with the barrel of his gun pressed tightly at the small of Ashe’s back. “I caught this one a-thieving in the saloon,” Caspar announces to nobody in particular. “I hope you got a cell free, ‘cause--”

He falls silent. 

The office is unnervingly cold, smelling faintly of damp, windows streaked with dirt. Sunlight peeks in through the closed shutters, catching dust motes as they dance through the air. Four desks fill almost all of the floor space, but only two of them seem to be in use.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” comes a voice, dangerously low.

Sheriff Blaiddyd would be a tall man if he stood to his full height, six inches taller than Caspar. But he slouches in a chair in the corner of the room, held down by a huge fur-lined coat even in the afternoon heat. His hair is worn long and uncut, maybe to hide the patch that covers what used to be his right eye. A cigar smoulders between his teeth, a rifle laid across his lap. The six-pointed star pinned to his coat is scratched and tarnished.

Dimitri snarls like a dog at the sight of Ashe, sweeping the papers from his desk in anger. Caspar is rooted to the spot in horrified fascination. “I take it you two have met before?” he asks, but the sheriff cuts him off.

“Lightfingers has sure made a name for himself. He’s the most prolific repeat offender in this town.” Dimitri gets right up into Ashe’s face, towering over him. “Shame thievery isn’t a hanging offence. Not _yet,_ anyway.”

Ashe twitches in fear, stuck between a psychotic lawman and the barrel of Caspar’s gun. His voice is high and quiet as a mouse. 

“Hello again, sheriff,” he stammers, trying to swallow his fear. “I seem to have made a terrible mistake--”

“Damn right you did. Dedue!”

The sheriff snaps his fingers, hollering at the top of its voice to call his deputy over. Dedue is a huge man, maybe six foot eight, two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. He isn’t much older than the others, but his hair is already a shock of white pulled back into a ponytail, the colour a stark contrast to the even brown of his skin. His expression is serious but not cruel, his face crossed with faded scars that speak of the fights gone before.

Dedue places his hand on Ashe’s shoulder, checking him over for weapons and escorting him to the jail. Ashe just follows in silence, the fire with which he’d fought earlier dissipating to nothing. It doesn’t seem like the first time they’ve played this game, and Caspar can’t help but think it won’t be the last. The two disappear through a door at the end of the office. From here, Caspar can hear the _clink_ of keys as a cell is unlocked, then locked again. They speak quietly, too low for him to make out.

Still furious, Dimitri turns his attention to Caspar. His one good eye is narrowed in suspicion, his voice harsh. “Put that weapon a’ yours down, boy,” he demands, and Caspar lies his shotgun on the desk, free hand raised. “You’re new in town,” Dimitri continues. “Who are you, and where have you come from?”

Suddenly Caspar understands Ashe’s fear. Not that he’d ever admit to it, but the temperature around him drops and he can’t help but shiver at the sight.

“The name’s Caspar Bergliez, sheriff. I’ve just come from San Adrestia, just a-passing through--”

“I know that name,” Dimitri interrupts. “Bergliez. That Hispanic for something?”

Caspar shakes his head and stutters, his mouth moving faster than his brain. “My-- uh, my father's name is Robert Edwin Bergliez. Runs a munitions company, dynamite too. And you mighta heard of him from the war, made a name for himself a-fighting for the confederacy. Some call him a war hero--”

“Your father is a slaver and a war criminal,” the sheriff spits, grabbing Caspar by the front of his shirt. Caspar doesn't think. He acts on instinct, headbutting Dimitri in the face and smashing his forehead into the sheriff’s nose. In retaliation Dimitri shoves Caspar across the office. He trips over his own feet, crashing to the floor.

The sound of a rifle being cocked fills the air, and Caspar’s blood runs cold. This time it’s his turn to be held at gunpoint. 

Dimitri all but drags him to the jail adjacent to the office. In the cell across from him, Ashe is exchanging pleasantries with Dedue as if they’re close friends. They ask each other about their families, Dedue hanging Ashe’s coat up on the wall like the thief in the cell opposite is a houseguest and not a prisoner. 

Caspar doesn't have time to dwell on it. The gun pointed at the base of his skull reminds him to keep moving. In a fair fight, Caspar tells himself that he could take everyone in the room, but his situation is anything _but_ fair. He’s quickly bundled into the cell opposite Ashe’s, the door locked up tight behind him. Caspar rattles the lock, but it won’t budge. He tries again--

Dimitri snaps, slamming his hands against the bars to the cell and snarling like a mountain lion. Caspar yelps and scurries back out of range. Like this, it’s almost like the bars are there to keep Caspar safe from the man outside, like Dimitri is the beast in the cage and not the other way around. One blue eye is wide and crazed, blood crusting around his nose where Caspar had headbutted him.

“You can stay in there overnight to think on your sins,” the sheriff growls. “I’ll let you out tomorrow, once you’ve cooled off.”

He turns on his heel and heads back into his office, the outline of his body hidden by that huge fur coat.

Caspar doesn’t think he’s been so glad to see the back of anyone in his life. 

The relief quickly fades as reality comes crashing down on him. He's ended up on the wrong side of the law in some barren territory a hundred miles from home, and he's in for a very long night in a six-by-eight foot cell with nobody for company bar the thief he'd just brought in. As much as it pains him to admit, he can't punch his way out of this one.

Not that it stops him from trying. It ends rather more painfully than he'd hoped.

Dedue sits on a bench across from Ashe's cell, filling out paperwork in companionable silence. Ashe's record is several pages thick, bound in its own folder. A new entry is noted down under today's date, the deputy diligently working to record the details. Caspar stares at the two men for a while, but it's hardly exciting to watch, and his patience quickly wears thin.

“I’m bored,” he whines, cracking his knuckles one by one. His left leg bounces erratically. The sun has barely moved in the sky, but it already feels like an eternity has passed.

“Already?” comes the reply from Ashe, less than understanding. “It’s been five minutes.” 

“But I’m really bored, man.” Caspar feels like he’s about to explode, the pent-up energy building more with every second that passes. “The hell is wrong with that sheriff?” he continues. “Who shat in his coffee? Is he usually that feral?”

Ashe checks over his shoulder, then drops his voice. “Sheriff was fine up until a couple years ago. Real nice feller. Kind, charming, handsome, the works. Every girl in town wanted him. Some of the men, too.” He says it bitterly, as if ruing a friendship long-lost. "That all changed when he rode out into the barrens, going after some white-haired woman who’d done wrong by him. Nobody knows what happened out there, but Dedue dragged him back to town half-dead with a knife in his shoulder, a real bad attitude and a missing eye.”

Ashe’s words hit a raw nerve. A white-haired woman prone to violence -- it sounds awfully familiar to Caspar, but he daren’t talk about that. Instead he says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“He’s an asshole,” Caspar declares, not quite loud enough to attract attention. 

“The sheriff is troubled,” Dedue counters. He doesn't raise his voice, even and somber. “He needs patience and a guiding hand.”

“He called my pa a war criminal and he nearly bit Ashe’s head off. The man ain’t got no right to wear that star.”

“He is more complex than you know.”

“That’s it?" Caspar yells. Livid, he barges his shoulder against the bars to his cell. But try as he might, he can’t provoke a reaction. Dedue doesn’t say anything more than that, instead reaching for his hat as he makes his excuses. 

“I have duties I must attend to,” he says solemnly. “Please excuse me.”

Caspar folds his arms and scowls. He pouts like a child. "That ain't fair," he protests, but the door to the jail is quickly shut, leaving him and Ashe alone. Dejected, Caspar slumps back against the wall, trying to find something to entertain himself. He cracks his knuckles again, tries to fix his hair, gives up, re-ties the bandana around his head to keep his fringe from falling into his eyes, fishes a quarter from his pocket. "Heads or tails?" he asks, but doesn't get a reply. He flips the coin anyway, if just for something to do. "Tails, in case you cared." 

The minutes tick away.

“You seem like a nice guy, Ashe," he says eventually, trying to break the silence. "Why’d ya turn to thieving?”

 _That_ certainly gets a reaction. Ashe shifts uncomfortably on his bench, and looks away, troubled. His eyebrows are pinched together in a frown, lips pressed tightly together. “That ain’t none of your business.”

“You tried to steal my wallet, I reckon that makes it my business.” Caspar stares through the window, at the sun still a long way away from setting. “‘Sides, sunset’s still a long way off. We got all day and night to talk.”

“We really don’t.”

Caspar scowls. Bored, he flicks the quarter at the wall, trying to get it to bounce back to him. He’s not having much success. The sound of metal on stone rings off the walls.

Ashe frowns again. He stares straight at Caspar, curious. But his voice is hushed, barely audible. “You’re the youngest in your family, right?”

Caspar looks up, suddenly agitated. “How’d you know?” 

“No reason. Call it a hunch. It don’t matter.” Ashe smiles to himself. He picks at his bootlaces, finally plucking up the courage to explain himself. “My folks owned the Blue Lion, maybe ten years ago. Used to be a restaurant back in the day. The plague came when we were still kids. I’m sure you remember it. Me and my brother and my sister, we were spared. But both my parents? No, they weren't so lucky."

“I’m sorry,” Caspar starts, but Ashe cuts him off.

“I was orphaned at nine years old. We lost everything, so I took to thieving. It weren’t the way I wanted to live, but I had to put food on the table somehow.” He flicks the deck of cards between his hands, shuffling and cutting and shuffling again. His lips barely move as he speaks. “We got lucky. A rich feller swept into town one day, took the three of us in. His name was Lonato, and he was the greatest man I ever knew. He bought out the Blue Lion, earned some honest cash, made it a good place again. Taught all three of us to read and write, how to behave like gentlemen. We were happy, for a while. Thought we’d finally struck gold.” 

Caspar can sense the ‘but’ already. “And then?” he asks, twitching in anticipation.

Ashe seems hesitant to talk any further. But he dusts himself off, picking up the deck of cards in one quick swoop. “There’s a gang around these parts. Dirty money. They work in protection, mostly. All their men got a scorpion tattooed on their wrist, that's how you can tell they're one of them.” He goes silent for a while, his restless hands finally falling still. He places the cards out in front of him, turning them over one by one until they’re arranged in four neat suits. "Lonato refused to pay protection. The gang came for him in the middle of the night. Dragged us out back and-- yeah. I reckon you can fill in the blanks.”

“I’m sorry,” Caspar says again. There’s nothing else he can say. His heart constricts, a deep, unsettling ache weighing heavy on his chest. 

"The gang wanted their money. They coulda killed Lonato, but they shot his flesh-and-blood son instead. The grief drove Lonato mad, and then it drove him to his death. Ever since, they’ve said the Blue Lion is cursed. I almost want to believe it.”

“Sounds pretty cursed to me,” Caspar replies, but Ashe sends him a glare.

“It ain’t cursed. I still got my brother and sister. Nothing’s gonna take them away from me, curse or not.” He finally finishes with his cards, leaving them in a neat stack by his right hand. “That gang’s got more money than they know what to do with. One day I’m gonna break into the vault, take back what’s mine. I don’t want to be rich. I just want to look after my family. That’s all.”

“That’s _it?"_ Caspar asks, incredulous. For all that Ashe was a criminal, the injustice committed against him in the past far outweighs any petty grudge Caspar has against him. Not that he'd ever advocate stealing, but he can see how Ashe's back is up against the wall. “You only want your share. That's _really_ all you want?”

“More than anything else. I’ll do it someday, I swear--”

“Be careful, Ashe. I don’t want you to get in any more trouble.”

Caspar yelps, flinching as Dedue’s voice carries through the cell block. How the big man had moved so quietly was anyone’s guess. But here he stands, clearing his throat, hands clasped behind his back.

There’s a woman stood at his side, a maternal-looking blonde with soft features and a crucifix hanging in pride of place around her neck. The wedding band around her fourth finger matches the one on Dedue’s right hand. Caspar is pretty sure that’s illegal in all thirty-eight states and eleven federal territories, but he keeps his mouth shut. For once, he's not keen on making any more trouble.

“You should rest,” the woman chastises, resting her arms around Dedue’s waist. She looks tired, like she's bearing the weight of the world on her shoulders. But her voice is soft, honeyed, the tone like the one Caspar’s mother always used when putting her rambunctious boys to bed for the night. “It won’t do you no good to worry away at that desk all night. Come home and--”

It’s then that she notices the occupant of the cell opposite. She smiles sadly at Ashe, clearly troubled.

“It’s good to see you, Mercedes,” Ashe greets her, and she shakes her head in gentle disapproval.

“A shame you’re back here so soon, Ashe. I will pray for your soul.”

“Thanks. Appreciate it.” He smiles despite his predicament, getting to his feet and draping his arms lazily against the bars to his cell. “You done for today, then?” he asks, strangely cheerful.

Dedue nods, slowly interlacing his fingers with Mercedes'. “I am finished. I will bid you goodnight.” He rests his free hand on the lock of Ashe’s cell, just to check it’s secure. “Will I see you tomorrow?” he asks, but Ashe shakes his head. 

“Probably not,” he replies with a shrug. “But I’m sure I’ll be back here soon enough. G‘night, Dedue. ‘Night, Mercie.”

He’s met with two rounds of “Goodnight, Ashe." Dedue picks his hat and coat from the stand, holds the door open for Mercedes, and then the door is locked behind them. 

Ashe waits for a minute or two to check they've really gone, then produces a set of thin metal tools from his pocket and gets to work on the lock of his cell. He screws up his face in concentration, pushing back each pin in the lock one by one. It’s fine, delicate work; he listens in, ear pressed up next to the lock to hear the pins snapping into place with a soft _clunk._ Caspar just watches on, fascinated and appalled. He could call for help; he could scream and holler and bang against the walls until someone called the sheriff and put the criminal back behind bars.

But he doesn’t.

After a few patient minutes, the lock gives way and the door swings open.

“Right,” Ashe says again, stretching out his shoulders and pocketing his ever-faithful deck of cards. “Now I reckon that’s my cue to leave, don’t you?”

“The hell?” Caspar asks, leaping to his feet. “Do mine too. Get me outta here!”

“‘Fraid I can’t do that. It was a pleasure meeting you, Caspar. I’m sure our paths will cross again.”

“Ashe, wait!” He calls the thief back, desperate. “I can help you,” he promises, his mouth once again moving faster than his mind can process what he’s saying. Caspar is talking nonsense, making it up as he goes along. Anything to get out of the cell. “I can help you get your money. No more thieving. How’d that sound?”

He can see Ashe hovering at the door to the office, hand still outstretched as he goes to pick up his coat. There’s a desperate hope in his eyes, guarded but unmistakable. Caspar’s fingers tighten around the bars keeping him restrained. 

Ashe has fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.

“You got one minute to tell me why I should let you out,” Ashe says quietly. Despite his harsh tone, his spring-green eyes are wide, full of hope. “Starting now. Get talking.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I can help you.”

It’s a stab in the dark. If what Ashe had said was true -- and Caspar has no reason to believe it wasn’t -- then somewhere out there is a gang that bleeds the honest folk of the town dry, a gang that killed an innocent man in cold blood over a little bit of money. If anyone deserves to be brought to justice, it’s the men behind the tragedy in Ashe’s past.

“I can help you,” Caspar says again, stalling for time. “I-- I’m a fighter. A real good one, too. I work as a lawman, back in San Adrestia.”

Ashe hesitates, face falling into a frown. He folds his arms. “That don’t fill me with confidence,” he says, decidedly unimpressed.

“I can fight,” Caspar pleads again. “And I know explosives. If you’re gonna try to get your money, you’ll be a-wanting me by your side.”

“It’s all kept at the bank, Caspar. There’s a man on duty at all times. This ain’t an ‘explosives’ kinda job.”

“Come on, man. I can watch your back.” He grips the lock to his cell, rattling it to emphasise his words. But Ashe is still uncertain. Something is making him hold back. Despite all of Caspar’s pleading, there’s still a barrier between them, one not easily broken down.

Ashe stares back at him, that flash of hope behind his eyes more carefully guarded now. “You turned me in,” he murmurs, sceptical. 

He’s right. For all that Caspar whines and protests and rattles his cage, he was still the one that got them into this mess. It’s his duty to get them out of it. 

“I didn’t know about you,” he says, hanging his head. “Or your family. I’m sorry.”

He’s not sorry in the slightest. Stealing is still a crime, and crime deserves punishment. It’s simple logic, and it’s never failed him until now. But locking Ashe up for his offences doesn’t seem to be working, and the thought of sending him to the gallows makes Caspar’s stomach turn. Was there another way to solve the problem? Would a sudden windfall put an end to Ashe’s thieving ways? Caspar isn’t sure, but it might be worth a try, especially if it won’t hurt any honest folk in the process. And he can hardly stand by while there’s a band of criminals out there whose deeds are going unpunished.

Maybe for once, just this once, he can make an exception.

“We’ll do it tonight,” he decides. “Take on this gang, get your share of the money. So you don’t have to steal again.”

Ashe frowns. “Thought you didn’t have time for criminal scum like me.”

Caspar has obviously touched a nerve, and he shakes his head, trying to make his intentions clear. Absentminded, he cracks his knuckles again, an old habit. “Look, I wanna help you,” he explains. “Serve some justice to the men that did you wrong. There’s bigger crimes than the theft of my watch, you know.”

For once in his life, he’s putting things in perspective. Thinking about the bigger picture doesn’t come naturally to Caspar, but a few long hours behind bars has obviously made him sentimental. If nothing else, he wants to get out of here. The waiting is getting under his skin like an itch he can’t quite scratch. 

Their one-minute grace period has long since expired. Caspar hardly notices. He’s already made up his mind.

“What do you say?” he asks, extending his hand between the bars in an offer of friendship. “You and me, Ashe. One night only. And when we’re through, you don’t ever gotta look back. How’d that sound?”

Ashe debates it for a while, lost in thought. He slides his fingers along the lockpick in his hands as he thinks, obviously uncertain but slowly coming to his conclusion.

“Fine,” he says, giving in after what seems like forever. “But you owe me.”

He grabs Caspar’s hand in a firm handshake. They’re still uneasy around each other, and Caspar grips him a little too tightly in reply.

“Partners in crime?” Caspar offers, and Ashe nods. The tiniest of smiles graces his lips.

“Partners.”

He sinks to his knees so he’s at eye level with the lock, and Caspar stands back to let the lockpicker work his magic. He holds back a joke about Ashe getting on his knees. Now is hardly an appropriate time. And he really, _really_ wants to get out of here.

It settles over him as Ashe works on the lock. They’re doing this, then: Caspar is an accessory to a bank job, the sort of crime that would find his face on a wanted poster should he be caught. He wonders if he’ll even be allowed back in San Adrestia if the worst were to happen. Nervous anticipation starts to writhe around in his stomach, and he balls his fists up again, already hyping himself up for the fight. 

This lock is significantly less trouble than the first. He’s freed in under a minute.

He grabs his hat, coat and gun from where they’d been left in the office, then, hand in hand with Ashe, slips out the door and into the streets beyond. They scurry across town without saying a word, heads down. It’s late enough that most people are safe at home, but the Blue Lion is still as raucous as ever. Caspar can hear the noise from halfway across town.

After a few minutes’ walk, they reach the bank. It’s not a big building, but it sure is impressive, all dark stone and white marble with a shiny new clock face set into the stone. It’s getting colder as evening draws in, the shadows stretching across the ground.

“This the place?” he asks, and Ashe nods, then touches his finger to his lips. Caspar doesn’t notice. “You got a plan?”

Ashe’s voice is low. He glances over his shoulder every few seconds, just in case. “It’s an easy in and out. I pick the lock to the staff entrance, we sneak in. You watch my back, I get what’s mine, we’re out again without trace. No-one will notice we’ve ever been there.”

The sun is low in the sky, and Caspar pulls his hat down to shield his eyes. “So what are we waiting for?” he asks, already preparing himself for the fight to come. “Let’s do this.”

“Doing this in daylight ain’t a good idea,” Ashe warns, but Caspar cuts him off.

“You want to wait around for that pig of a sheriff to catch you, be my guest. I wanna get this done, if it’s as easy as you say, and then I’ll be outta here before you can say ‘wanted fugitive’.”

Ashe sighs, then presses his back against a wall as a pair of men walk past, trying not to be seen. “The vaults are all underground,” he explains. “Gotta get through two locked doors to get to the stairs. The first one, now that ain’t a problem. I came prepared for that.” He produces a key from his pocket, the initials 'F.H.F.' scratched into the metal. “The second lock is gonna be tricky. That’s the one down to the vault. And it squeaks. If we want to get past, we gotta wait for the watchman to do his rounds. That’s coming up in ten minutes.” He glances up at the clock, just to check. “He heads down at five past the hour, returning to his post at a quarter past. Means we got ten minutes to get through the door. Shouldn’t be too hard, but things can go wrong real quick in these kinda jobs.”

Caspar nods. “I’ll be there to watch your back.”

The second the clock hits five past eight, Ashe races out to the back of the bank, finding the small staff entrance away from prying eyes. The stolen key goes in easily, the door unlocking without a sound. There’s no-one around; just as Ashe had predicted, the watchman’s desk is empty. He leaves the stolen key under the chair as he passes.

Bolder than before, he grabs Caspar’s hand, leading him deep into the building. There’s a second locked door to navigate, and there’s no easy entry this time. Ashe brings his lockpicking tools from his pocket, selecting one and sliding it into the keyhole. He tries to jig the lock, but the tool isn’t the best fit, and after a few minutes of struggle, he gives up, selecting a different tool and starting again.

“I never get this far,” he says quietly. His hands are beginning to tremble, the nerves starting to get to him. “I always sneak in, but I’ve never been beyond this door--”

“Now you got me,” Caspar says bluntly. “You ain’t gonna back out now.”

“Yeah,” Ashe replies lamely. His eyes never leave the keyhole. One pin slides back. Two. Three. But it’s delicate work, and he’s going far too slowly for Caspar’s liking.

It’s taking _forever._

“Stand back,” Caspar says, pulling his watch from his pocket. He scans the corridor, then readies his gun. Thirteen minutes past eight. They’re almost out of time. “I’ll shoot the door in.”

“And bring the whole of Faerghus county out here? Please just be patient for _one more_ minute. I’m nearly done--”

The lock gives way with a _click._ Ashe pauses only to send him a look that says _I-told-you-so,_ then gestures with his head. That’s Caspar’s signal to go, and he sneaks down the stairs before Ashe can chastise him any further. His footsteps are painfully loud, echoing off the walls. For all that Caspar tries to silence himself, he’s not made for sneaking around.

The vault is deathly cold below ground, and he shivers, pulling his coat around him. The air down here tastes stale, slightly damp. There are maybe forty huge safes set into the walls of the vault, cubes three feet in every direction, walls of solid steel five inches thick. 

Part of him wishes he’d brought a stick of explosives. Just for fun, of course.

At his side, Ashe tiptoes down the central corridor, far more quietly than Caspar could ever manage. He’s reading the names above each safe, trying to find the one he’s looking for. 

“Here,” he says quietly, stopping in front of a safe at the end. He runs his thumb over the plaque just below eye level. The name 'Leclerc' is engraved into the brass in thin, elegant letters. “Sorry, Yuri,” he whispers to himself, touching his forehead to the metal. “Ain’t nothing personal.”

Then, just as he’d done before, he sinks to his knees to work, distracting Caspar with a snap of his fingers and a two-fingered salute back to the stairs. “Please be quiet,” Ashe warns, ear pressed up against the door to the safe as he listens to the lock. “I need absolute silence if I’m gonna crack this thing. And keep an eye out for the watchman. If he finds us, he’ll kill us both on the spot.”

Caspar just nods in reply. He keeps his mouth shut.

He waits. 

Ashe works.

The minutes pass in silence.

Suddenly something brushes up against Caspar’s leg, and he lets out a startled yelp as he leaps away. He points his gun at the ground. But it’s only a cat, a scrawny-looking black and white tom with crooked whiskers and a torn-up ear. It makes a quiet _mrr_ sound as it headbutts Caspar’s leg again, begging for attention.

“Hey old boy,” he says quietly, crouching down to pet the cat and putting his gun away. “Whatcha doing down here, hm? I ain’t got no food for ya, if that’s what you’re after.”

The cat yowls, louder this time.

“Quiet,” Ashe hisses, but the damage is already done.

“Who goes there?” comes a voice from above, and Caspar’s heart sinks.

“Shit!” he hisses, again reaching for the weapon slung across his back. But Ashe acts first, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and dragging him back into a tiny alcove at the side of the vault. Ashe clamps one hand over Caspar’s mouth. Their bodies are pressed together in the confined space, their faces far too close for comfort. Every breath might be their last. 

The light from the watchman’s lantern illuminates the stairs, then spills out into the vaults. The butt of Caspar’s shotgun digs painfully into his back, and it takes everything in him to grit his teeth and remain quiet. Just a few more seconds, that’s all he has to stay silent for and then he can curse as much as he likes.

He can feel the rise and fall of Ashe’s ribs as he breathes, chests pushed up against each other. This is how he’s going to die, he realises, breaking into a bank with some common thief. Either that or shot in the back by an angry watchman as they flee. Neither is a good end to Caspar’s story. It’s certainly not the way he’d imagined he’d go, pinned into the wall with another man up against him. 

What will his father think? Would he even care at all? Would they bury him in the hostile ground of this backwater town or send him home to San Adrestia? Would Linhardt come to the funeral? Would Dorothea? Ferdinand? A thousand questions fill his mind, all demanding his attention.

Somehow all he can focus on are Ashe’s soft green eyes and the swarm of summer freckles across pale skin.

“Don’t make a sound,” Ashe pleads, desperate. 

The watchman begins to make his way downstairs. It’s the man from outside the bar -- 'Fraldarius’, he’d called himself, if Caspar recalls right. He holds a lamp in one hand, revolver in the other. He walks slowly, boots light as a feather against the stone floors.

“Who’s there?” he barks again.

All he gets in reply is a soft _mrow_ from the cat at the end of the corridor. 

The man narrows his eyes. “Not you again,” he mutters, glaring at the cat until it turns tail and saunters away.

The light flickers, then starts to retreat. Caspar releases a shaky breath, one he didn’t realise he’d been holding in. His heart is beating so fast he’s almost convinced it’s going to explode.

“I could take the watchman out?” he suggests. His voice is a whisper, but he bounces on his heels, antsy.

Ashe shakes his head. “You’re too loud. And you’ll attract far too much attention. We’ll be back in the sheriff’s office within the hour, and this time I don’t reckon he’ll be so understanding.”

“Plenty of quiet ways to kill a man,” Caspar offers, but he’s cut off.

“We ain’t killing _anyone,_ ” Ashe insists. “Besides, you against Felix? You’d lose.”

“I sure wouldn’t. Ain’t no faster right hook in the west--”

“Please be quiet.”

Caspar falls silent.

The sound of footsteps starts to fade as Felix disappears upstairs to his post. Only when Ashe has counted a full minute on his watch does he return to his work, twisting the dial of the safe one way, then the other, listening to the mechanism work in an intricate pattern that Caspar can’t understand. It takes another few minutes, but finally a quiet _click_ signals that he’s finished.

“I’m done,” Ashe says quietly, almost in disbelief. “This is it.”

The door to the safe swings open.

“Woah,” Caspar says, his mouth falling open. “I ain’t never seen that much gold in my life.”

Not just gold. Neat piles of ten-dollar bills are placed in sheaves of twenty, piled maybe a foot high. Folders full of documents, papers and deeds and contracts Caspar can’t make out. And the back of the safe glints with a stack of gold bars, each one maybe thirty-two ounces and stamped with a serial number. The colour reflects even in the poor light, the lustre painting the inside of the safe in a burnished sheen of gold.

Ashe looks over the hoard with wide eyes and pursed lips, taking it all in. He’s shocked into silence; he’s probably never seen this much money in his life. Then again, neither has Caspar. All they do is stare for a good long time until Ashe shakes himself off, getting down to business. 

“They wanted forty per cent of Lonato’s profit,” he says quietly, clearly struggling with the maths. He frowns, trying to count on his fingers, but the numbers are far bigger than he could manage alone. “Say we averaged fifty dollars’ profit a day, six days a week, for seven years, give or take, that’d be, what, six times fifty times how many weeks in a year? Goddamn it, I wish Annette was here--”

“Who gives a shit,” Caspar interrupts. “Just take it all.”

Ashe shakes his head. “I can’t take everything,” he murmurs eventually. “Those men got families, too.”

Still, they both can’t help but stare at the money. Ashe is already on his knees, but if he could fall any further, he would. The expression on his face is somewhere between disbelief and fear. Any sane man would take all of it and run.

But he doesn’t.

“I’ll take a thousand dollars,” Ashe decides, frowning as he counts up the cash. “I don’t know if that’s the share they took from the Blue Lion, but it’ll be enough money to get me away from this place. Don’t know where I’ll go. Somewhere I can take the kids and start again."

"San Adrestia?" Caspar offers, but Ashe shakes his head.

"I don't know. Hopefully the gang won’t even notice the money's gone.”

He starts to pack the inside pockets of his coat with money, running his fingers along the edge of the notes as he does. After five bundles of cash, he goes for another, but hesitates. His hand hovers above the gold, indecisive.

“You’re serious about only taking your share, huh?” Caspar asks, laying a hand on Ashe’s shoulder. “They’re gangsters, Ashe. You can take as much as you like. This is dirty money.”

“I don’t want anyone else to suffer like we did. I’m only doing this for my brother and sister.”

“But they killed your family,” he replies, instantly regretting the words as they come out. “Your second one, anyway. Don’t you want revenge?”

Ashe shakes his head. He stares at the money, his expression impossible to make out in the dim light. “This ain’t about revenge. It never was. I just want enough to keep what’s left of my family safe, and--”

“And you got mouths to feed,” Caspar finishes. The realisation hits him like a train. For all his thievery, Ashe is a good man, honourable in a way Caspar has never seen from common criminals before. Or perhaps he's just never looked hard enough. Whatever it is, it makes his heart skip when Ashe looks up at him with a wide smile and a flush of colour beneath the freckles across his cheeks.

“What happened to no sympathy for ‘criminal scum’?” Ashe teases, but he’s cut off as Caspar grabs him by the hand, barely holding in his excitement.

“Come on,” he says, “let’s get outta here.”

Ashe shuts and locks the safe, and then they’re running out of the vault together, leaving only a disappointed stray cat behind them. All secrecy is thrown out the window. Caspar slams the door as they go, his footfalls crashing down the corridor. 

“Caspar!” Ashe calls, but he’s still smiling as Caspar drags him by the hand, charging up the stairs and then out into the streets, racing until the setting sun glares into their eyes. Caspar doesn't know where he's going, and he doesn't care. He only stops when Ashe grabs him by the shirt and pulls him into a sheltered space behind the Blue Lion. 

They take a second to catch their breath. He drops his hands onto his knees, chest heaving. “Man, that felt good,” he says, spitting at the floor. “Shame we didn’t get to fight nobody--”

“You sure are in a hurry.”

Caspar looks up, his relief slowly turning to dread. There’s a figure in the doorway to the saloon, stood with his back to the wall. He’s another giant of a man, hair worn long and bedraggled, his face in dire need of a shave. Even Caspar isn’t sure he could take this man in a fight. His coat hangs open with nothing else beneath, revealing a chest of toned muscle and an old bandolier of ammunition slung over his shoulder.

The man raises a cigarette to his lips. As he does, his sleeve slides down to his elbow, exposing the scorpion tattooed on his wrist.

Suddenly alert again, Caspar sets his fighting stance and balls his hands into fists, but the man isn’t interested in him.

“Good to see you, Ashe,” he says, voice low. Even from here, Caspar can smell the whiskey on his breath.

Ashe frowns, the colour draining from his already-pale face. “You-- what are you doing here?”

“Long time no see, pal.” The man steps out into the dusk, flicking his cigarette to one side. “Heard you been making a name for yourself out here.”

“Balthus, please--”

“Sorry, kid. The boss wants you brought in, dead or alive. And I got debts to pay off.”

Caspar’s blood turns to ice in his veins. Maybe he'd spoken too soon about not fighting anyone. He tries to drum up his usual anticipation before a fight, but something holds him back. It’s going to be dangerous -- this man looks significantly stronger and more experienced than both the kids. And it seems he and Ashe have history. Caspar doesn't know what it is, but he can't allow any harm to come to Ashe, not after what they've just done together. He's the defender of the innocent, after all.

Not that any of them are truly innocent.

Ashe and Balthus slowly pace around each other in a circle, Ashe with his hands up, trying to calm the older man down. Balthus’ fists are raised in challenge.

He lunges.

Panicking, Ashe races away, eyes wide. Balthus goes to make chase, but Caspar leaps onto his back, trying to force him into a chokehold. The old shotgun is dropped to the ground, useless.

“Get the gun!” Caspar shouts, but Balthus tosses him off like he weighs nothing more than an alley cat. He lands unceremoniously in the dirt. His palms sting as he skins them against the ground, but his coat takes the worst of the impact and he’s quickly back to his feet. 

Caspar kicks Balthus in the back of his knees, and he goes crashing to the ground. Quick as a rattler strike he’s back up again, trying to grab Ashe. A yelp, and Ashe leaps back, always just out of reach.

Desperate, Caspar grabs the weapon left on the ground, flipping it over in his hands and smashing the butt of the shotgun into the back of Balthus’ head. A roar fills the air. The gangster pivots on his heel, punching Caspar straight in the throat. 

The shock takes his breath away. He crumples into the dirt.

The gun slips from his hands again.

Caspar blacks out for a moment, the sunset above fading to white. It could only be a few seconds, but it’s long enough. Ashe scrambles to his side, grabbing the gun from the ground and standing over Caspar to protect him. And when the world comes back into focus, he's stood with Caspar’s gun in his hands, just out of Balthus’ punching range. The kid is shaking at the knees, but he refuses to back down. His usually-bright voice is quiet, steely. 

“That’s enough,” he says, finger on the trigger. There’s a force in there that can’t be mistaken. “Tell Leclerc howdy from me, but I’m off the menu. Now get outta here before you make me do something I don’t wanna do.”

“Kid--”

“With the mess you’ve made, the sheriff will be out here with his men in the next few minutes. I don’t want to be anywhere near this place when they arrive, and neither will you. Do the honourable thing. Please leave us be, and we’ll be on our way.”

Whatever Ashe is saying, it works. Balthus staggers back to the bar, saying something about a mockingbird and needing a drink. He stares back at Ashe as he goes, conflicted, but soon enough the danger has passed.

Relieved, Ashe lets the gun drop back to the floor.

Caspar watches all of this on his back in the dust. His throat hurts. His head hurts. But he finds himself more concerned about Ashe, who crouches down to his side. Those round green eyes are full of fear, pale face showing a mess of emotions as he processes the last few minutes. As if nursing a headache, Ashe presses his fingers to his forehead. Whatever it is, he shakes it off after a few seconds, offering his hand to Caspar to help him back to his feet. 

“That was fun,” Caspar says as soon as he’s standing again. He punches the air in triumph, then smacking Ashe in the arm with a ‘friendly’ punch that almost knocks Ashe off his feet. “And we _did_ get to fight someone. We make one helluva team, you know. We should do it again sometime. Take out the whole gang.”

All he gets for his enthusiasm is a shake of the head and a nervous half-smile. “You’re insane.”

He grins. “Maybe a little. All part of the charm.”

“We should--” Ashe starts, but he cuts himself off. He hands Caspar the gun back, dusting his hands down on his trousers. “We should get back. I don’t want you getting into trouble.”

“Any _more_ trouble,” Caspar counters, hoisting his gun over his shoulder and starting to walk. “I reckon I won’t be all that welcome ‘round these parts for a while.”

“You can say that again.”

They stroll down the main high street in silence for a while, the setting sun hoving above the horizon behind them. The last of the day’s warmth is slowly fading, lost in the dusk.

“So,” Caspar says, thinking back to the vault, then to the man outside the bar. “Leclerc, right? You know this guy?”

Ashe nods, that wry smile returning. “Yuri Leclerc. Their leader. Cajun, trickster, real interesting feller. Me and him, we go way back.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Another smile, much bigger this time. “I gotta keep some secrets, you know.”

“Tell me,” Caspar whines, but Ashe just shakes his head.

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

“Ashe, you--”

He crashes into someone as he rounds the corner, his fighting instinct leaping into action. Caspar raises his fists, but he needn’t have worried; it’s just a young woman, the same redhead that had given him directions in the marketplace earlier.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she squeaks. “I’m so clumsy, I’m sorry--”

Ashe puts his hand on Caspar’s chest, holding him back. “Annette?” he asks, and the woman stares up at him as she scrambles back to her feet.

“Ashe? Ashe! Oh man, is it good to see you! I heard from Mercie that you ended up in a cell, and--”

She trails off. Ashe offers a quiet reply, muted. “Yeah,” he admits. “Guilty as charged.”

“Not _again,_ Ashe,” she says, but he can only confirm her fears with a nod.

“I-- uh, I hate to ask, but have you got a place to crash for the night? I need somewhere to lie low.”

Annette frowns. “You know I can’t keep a secret. Felix will ask, and then I’ll _have_ to tell him, and--”

“Just for one night?” he looks down at her, pleading. “Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Of course,” she says, smiling up at him. “I can do that. Anything for a friend. Oh! I meant to tell you. I found a book I thought you’d like, and I can cook for you too, and--” She trails off. Ashe goes to thank her, but she looks to Caspar instead. “What about you, stranger?”

Caspar shrugs. “Reckon I should probably hightail it outta here before I bring that sheriff a’ yours down on all three of us.”

“Leaving so soon?” Ashe asks, but Caspar has to nod.

“You ever come down to San Adrestia, come find me.” He tips his hat to Annette, then offers his hand out to Ashe. “Partner.”

Ashe returns his handshake. “I’d like that, partner,” he says quietly, not letting go just yet. “As long as you promise not to throw me in jail, this time.”

“That’s a promise.” A swell of pride rears in Caspar’s chest as he clutches at Ashe’s hand, the simple joy of a win-win victory. He stares at Ashe, the same goofy grin on both their faces. “Anything else you want to take from me, while you’re here?” he teases. “Steal my heart, perhaps?”

Ashe suddenly goes red in the face, dropping the handshake and digging both hands deep into his pockets instead. “I-- I gotta go,” he says quietly, glancing at Annette. “You should too, Caspar.”

Caspar reaches up to scratch the back of his head, a little awkwardly. “Right,” he says, nodding and staring down at his feet. “Sure, sure. Yeah. Come down to San Adrestia, and we can-- yeah. Sweet.”

If there ever was a moment, it’s lost. 

“I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” Ashe offers, and Caspar nods.

“I’ll see you ‘round, Ashe. It’s been a pleasure.”

They part ways at the end of the road.

Caspar fetches his horse, tosses a coin to the ostler to keep him quiet, and hauls himself into the saddle. He rides out the same way he’d ridden in, stopping at the boundary to look back at the town, to stare at the church spire and the old saloon and the dusty barrens beyond.

Once again he goes for a cigarette, only to come across an unfamiliar weight in his coat pocket. He reaches in to find a busted-up deck of cards with dog-eared corners and faded print, slipped onto his person when he wasn’t looking.

It’s not much, but it’s a memento of sorts, something to remember their adventure by. He fans the cards in his hands, taking in the name written against the ace of spades in the barely-legible hand of a common boy still not fully used to letters and script.

_Ashe Ubert._

They’ll meet again someday, he knows it.

Caspar rides out of town with a smile on his face and the setting sun behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Hope you're all safe and well.
> 
> This was written as a birthday present for my best friend and rock in a stormy sea, who thankfully doesn't mind my obsession with cowboy garbage. Go check him out, if you're a fan of equal parts tooth-rotting fluff and emotional gut-punches.
> 
> Sorry it gets a bit hammy at the end -- I got worldbuilding to do! Plenty more of this AU where that came from, though.
> 
> If you've made it this far, why not drop a comment, let me know your thoughts?
> 
> See you soon!


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